


Immutable Intimacy

by starrysummernights



Series: Consent [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Chastity Device, Cock Cage Blow Jobs, Cock Cages, Consensual Kink, Dom John Watson, Dom/sub, Long Term Orgasm Denial, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Overstimulation, Power Exchange, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Sub Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 11:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12957903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights
Summary: It wasn’t always about the ropes and whips, hot wax and leather, sensation carefully toeing the thin line between pleasure and pain, the kneeling and submitting and wicked kinks. They didn’t always play out a carefully orchestrated scene with set parameters, a menu of debauchery on the offering, and a specific goal in mind. The unashamed, thrilling power exchange they both loved was instead sometimes put away, stored like an object highly prized by its owners in velvet and cushion, to be brought out and used again at a later date.*Self-indulgent porn*





	Immutable Intimacy

**Author's Note:**

> This is self-indulgent porn. Please note: Sherlock is not being forced to do anything he doesn't want to do. He has a safeword to use which John knows and respects, and they are in a loving, healthy, dom/sub relationship.

It wasn’t always about the ropes and whips, hot wax and leather, sensations carefully toeing the thin line between pleasure and pain, the kneeling and submitting and wicked pleasure. They didn’t always play out a carefully orchestrated scene with set parameters, a menu of debauchery on the offering, and a specific goal in mind. The unashamed kink they both loved was instead sometimes put away, stored like an object highly prized by its owners in velvet and cushion, to be brought out and used again at a later date.

Because sometimes, when the day had been too long, or they were feeling languorous, or just because they sodding wanted to, John and Sherlock wanted to make love, be in the moment together, without coordinating the whys and wherefores.

That night, they kissed slowly, legs tangled together in the covers of the bed, arousal a slow, simmering burn they both knew would soon ignite into a conflagration and overwhelm them both. For now, they were content to kiss, Sherlock doing sinful things with his tongue in John’s mouth which John secretly thought were probably illegal in several countries.

He loved it.

He loved kissing Sherlock, pressing his own thin lips against the plush perfection of Sherlock’s and hearing his hitched breaths and moaning sighs in response. It was what John lived for, to hear those sounds from Sherlock and to know, without a doubt, that it was because of him, John Watson, that Sherlock responded like that. Narcissistic and self-centered, but since Sherlock was usually enough of that for both of them, John thought he was entitled to a bit of it now and again.

Sherlock’s tongue swirled around John’s, enticing it to play, and when John followed Sherlock sucked at his tongue, a suggestion and a promise, drawing it into his mouth and flicking at it. John moaned, his cock plumping, filling out as the first flames of fire began to lick at him.

Sherlock, for his part, was already on fire. Every naked part of him was pressed alongside John, the places where their skins touched searing him. They had showered together earlier, thinking only of having an early night, but one thing had led to another had led to another and…

Sherlock sighed against John’s lips as he greedily touched him, his neck and chest, shoulders and upper arms, biceps and wrists, stomach and hips. He couldn’t settle on one part, wanting all of him, all of John, all at once. John wanted to take it slow, and Sherlock enjoyed that. It had it’s merits, but tonight- it wasn’t enough.

Frustrated, Sherlock broke their kiss- John made a noise of protest- and quickly moved, throwing a leg over John and resettling astride his hips. John chuckled, his hands coming up to knead at Sherlock’s thighs, stretched taut over his body.

“Impatient, love?” He asked cheekily, grinning up at Sherlock with his heart in his eyes. He was so beautiful, laid out beneath Sherlock, looking up at him as if he were the most gorgeous thing he had ever seen, and clearly think how he could have ever gotten so lucky as to have Sherlock. Sherlock could also feel John’s half-hard cock nudging at his arse and he pushed back against it. John giggled.

“Give us a kiss.” He jerked his chin in invitation and Sherlock sank onto him, sealing their lips together again, and this time it was John’s turn to tease, running the tip of his tongue along Sherlock’s lips before nipping at his lower lip, tugging it with just enough pressure to make Sherlock groan. Their resulting kiss was enough to make his heart race, nipples tightening into twin peaks, and he thrust against John to relieve the resultant heavy ache in his groin- then had another reason to groan.

They may have decided to eschew the regular kinky carnival of wickedness that night, but there was one item which was always included: the cock cage locked around Sherlock’s genitals. It was included no matter what they did and had been a fixed, unchanged point for years.

Sherlock was surprised he’d even briefly forgotten about the tight restriction, but he supposed it had to do with the fact that the cage was so very rarely removed. It almost felt like a part of him these days. He thrust again but the cage just caught and skidded on the skin of John’s stomach, disappointingly ineffective. Sherlock could barely feel the warmth of John’s skin through the bars- but John groaned, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and angled his head, deepening their kiss and pulling Sherlock closer.

Sherlock whimpered, and humped against John even though it was pointless. He moved faster, hips pumping eager...until his cock reached the limits of the small cage and, twitching pitifully, had nowhere else to go. Sherlock tensed, panting through the pain of his denied erection. He closed his eyes, shuddering, when he felt John rocking his own hard cock against his arse in humiliating counterpoint, demonstrating to Sherlock which of them could have erections, and reminding him how pathetically redundant his own attempts always were.

__

“God, I love you.” John said and the declaration, heard a thousand times in a thousand different ways, still affected Sherlock the same. He would never get tired of hearing it. John could whisper it, shout it, write it, type it, sign it, mime it, declare it to the world and Sherlock would never get tired of hearing that John Watson loved him.

__

“I love _you_.” Sherlock whispered back, and John’s arms came around him in a hug that was warm and comfortable and perfect. Sherlock sighed, relaxing into the affection, pushing aside the heavy throb of need centered in his groin. John was always free with his love, open and honest, because he knew Sherlock soaked it in like a flower during the rain. John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, scuffing through his hair affectionately and Sherlock closed his eyes, yawning. He could sleep like this.

__

“Are you too tired, sweetheart?” John asked gently. “It’s fine if you are. We can do this another time. I don’t mind, love. We can call it an early night and-”

__

Sherlock pulled away, John’s arms slipping from around him, and gave him a wicked grin- words weren’t needed between them- before shuffling backwards. He kissed his way down John’s neck, licked from one nipple to the other, taking the time to swirl each bud with his tongue, smirking when John gasped and encouraged Sherlock to suck at them which, after a little persuasion, he did.

__

By the time Sherlock made his way across John’s stomach, worshipping every inch of skin, and over his iliac crest, laving John’s bones with the same careful care he’d given the rest of him, John’s cock was hard, flushed, standing straight up from the patch of curly blonde hair. Sherlock’s mouth watered.

__

If asked (although most people didn’t), Sherlock would have said that he was an expert at sucking John’s cock. He’d certainly had plenty of practice over the years, and it was a hobby he devoted all of his attention to. If he wanted, Sherlock could bring John off in under a minute, less than 30 seconds if they’d already been kissing…but he wanted to make love to John tonight, and be made love _to_ by John. Tonight wasn’t about speed or kink or driving each other wild. It was about the simple joy of being together and making love.

__

Sherlock ran his lips up the length of John’s cock, inhaling the sweat and musk and clean soap smells that were concentrated at John’s groin. They were a miasma of scents to which Sherlock had a near- Pavlovian reaction. He wrapped his lips around the length, taking it all in his mouth in one, smooth, practiced pull and saliva flooded his mouth. He bobbed his head, flicking his tongue against the frenulum on every pass, and John gasped, hips pushing up, encouraging Sherlock to take him deeper, and his cock noticeably hardened in Sherlock’s mouth when he did.

__

Sherlock’s own cock gave a pulse of envy at the display of the uninhibited freedom to have an erection, an ability which, for Sherlock, was completely unheard of. The sight of how _easily_ John’s cock hardened made Sherlock moan with longing as his own struggled in the cage but was effectively stifled, forced to stay soft and obedient. There were no other options, Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to get hard like John could. Effortlessly. On a whim. Just because he _wanted to_. It’d been years. More than he cared to count.

Sherlock sucked at John’ cock, making him gasp with pleasure, and wished that he was able to occasionally get hard as well. But he knew that wouldn’t happen and John had made it clear that his wishes on the matter were irrelevant. Which was how Sherlock wanted it anyway. He could never get hard unless John let him, but having his cock free from the cage was something Sherlock almost never deserved. He could count on one hand the number of erections John had permitted him over the last few years. The opportunities were so rare and far apart that Sherlock almost forgot what it felt like to even have an erection by the next time he was allowed.

That was how John wanted it. The total denial illustrated the lesson that the proper place for Sherlock’s cock was in the cage. It belonged in the cage. Always.

__

Taking John’s cock deeper into his throat, Sherlock’s hand strayed down between his legs, fingers tracing over the cage. He could feel small bits of his cock through the bars, so minuscule as almost to be meaningless, but since his cock was never touched, even the smallest caress was magnified.

__

He moaned as his cock surged against the bars in a desperate rush, begging for more stimulation, and he sighed shakily at the resultant reminder of just how small the cage really was. There was nowhere for his cock to expand. Not the smallest centimeter. It could only futilely pulse against the bars with no hope of release, but even knowing that, Sherlock was helpless to stop touching himself. He hadn’t been unlocked in more than six months and it’d been that long since he'd last been allowed an erection, or felt the wonder of John's hand stroking at his cock without the cage as a barrier. He moaned again, the idea of being _touched_ so erotic, beguiling. Impossible. His hips pistoned uselessly and he whimpered, imagining how good it would feel for his cock to be free. Even for a minute.

It’d been more than three years since they’d made the cage a permanent arrangement- agreeing that Sherlock’s cock did in fact _belong_ in the cage, denied and, for the most part, forgotten about so he could better concentrate on serving John. John had made it clear that he considered being in the cage Sherlock's cock's default state, and so the cage was never removed except for twice a year. At the most. If Sherlock had been good.

Sherlock sped up the strokes over his caged cock, panting. It was something he’d started doing a few years ago: continually denied, aching with unsatisfied arousal and longing to feel any sort of touch on his neglected cock, Sherlock had taken to using his fingertips to stroke at the tiny slivers of flesh through the small openings in the cage. It felt good but was ultimately useless because he couldn’t come from it and it only aroused him further. Sometimes he couldn’t help but try though, stimulating himself to near madness until he cried with tears of frustration. And it didn’t help that John loved fucking him while Sherlock touched himself, the sight of Sherlock rubbing at the cage, desperate for the smallest amount of pleasure, begging as his cock strained against the steel, enough to make John curse and thrust hard, coming quickly. He moaned his pleasure, pulling out and letting Sherlock watch him come, striping hot lines of come over Sherlock’s cringing prick, and only after he was done with his orgasm would he wipe away the tracks of tears on Sherlock’s temples with loving gentleness. And Sherlock would be left shaking, proud he was able to satisfy John, but wishing he could experience the same.

__

_Just once._

__

But he knew better.

His cock belonged in the cage. Sherlock was never allowed to come the way he used to, the way that John did: his cock free and hard and spurting as he reached a full, satisfying orgasm. Those were all things of the past for Sherlock now. It served to remind him of his place in their dynamic, his complete submission, and that he existed only to please John. And since John was expert at milking him to keep him healthy, rubbing over Sherlock’s prostate and draining his testicles of the pent up semen which accumulated from his denial without the barest ghost of orgasm, there wasn’t any reason he ever actually needed to come.

__

At all.

__

John reminded him of this constantly- as if Sherlock would be able to forget. It was no exaggeration to say that, after so many years, Sherlock was more familiar with the cage than actual freedom. And even though he sometimes wished he could get hard more than twice a year, or be allowed to come like John- knowing he would actually _come_ and that his release wouldn’t be ruined as it always was- Sherlock wouldn’t change a single thing about their arrangement.

__

He _loved_ the stark disparity between them: his own utter lack of satisfaction contrasted with John’s selfish indulgence. His cock trapped in the cage, unsble to get hard, while John straddled his hips and flaunted his ability to have an erection, grinning while he rubbed his hard cock against the cage where Sherlock’s sensitive flesh struggled uselessly. His body was used for John’s pleasure and never given anything in return, Sherlock only able to jealously watch as John reached orgasm, deliberately spooling over Sherlock’s cock as a reminder of his inability to do the same.

It was what Sherlock honestly wanted, and he _still_ wanted it...even though he sometimes lay awake at night and wondered, after so many years, what it would feel like to actually have an orgasm again. He usually tried not to think about it- John had told Sherlock he would never let him come and Sherlock believed him - but sometimes he tortured himself by touching the cage and remembering the blissful expression on John’s face when he reached orgasm, and the way John’s cock pulsed and his come spurted out hard over and over. Sherlock tried to remember how that’d once felt. John had used to let him come that way sometimes but it had been so long since he’d been allowed that he had to think back years...and even then the memory was vague, insubstantial. It felt like he was making things up more than actually remembering...

More often than not, Sherlock woke the next morning humping against the mattress in an unsuccessful attempt at pleasure, the fragments of a dream wherein he’d been hard and on the edge of orgasm splintering when faced with the harsh reality of his situation. John would chuckle at him, leisurely stroking at his own erection while Sherlock humped, letting him carry on for a while longer, before finally rolling Sherlock onto his back and fucking him. Hard and rough and fast, he’d grip at Sherlock’s cock and fondle his swollen, full balls while he did. Those mornings, John usually came on Sherlock’s cock, which would be red and hurting as it strained against the steel, and then leave Sherlock writhing, even more aroused than before and hopeless in the knowledge that it wouldn’t be relieved.

But Sherlock was still content to surrender to John and be denied and locked and teased. His own cock was forgotten in lieu of John’s. The rare orgasm he was usually permitted once a year mercilessly ruined. And through it all, he knew that he was loved and cared for, John striving to fulfill Sherlock’s every fantasy and give him what he’d wanted for years.

__

While they both enjoyed keeping Sherlock permanently locked, fantasy was different from real life and practicalities and good health had to be observed. This was why John insisted that twice a year Sherlock was released from the cage to be thoroughly cleaned and permitted an erection. John handcuffed him to the bed (Sherlock’s hands were never free when his cage was removed) and then took his time as he washed Sherlock’s cruelly neglected, touch-starved cock. These were the times Sherlock looked forward to the most, because not only was he finally able to get hard, but John would _touch him_. He’d more than make up for the months Sherlock’s cock had been ignored, teasing him for _hours_. Once, he had even sucked Sherlock’s cock, causing him to arch and shout and beg as he experienced what he used to be so intimately acquainted with but now barely remembered- until Sherlock was in frustrated tears and thought he would splinter apart and finally come…but he never did....

__

Well, not never. Occasionally, Sherlock amended as John’s salty precome flooded his mouth and from the corner of his eyes he saw John’s testicles drawing up, he was allowed to have an orgasm. That, however, he thought, rubbing at his cage more insistently, was an almost nonexistent event. In the three years since the cage was made permanent, Sherlock had only orgasmed four times. And all of those (except one) had been _ruined_ orgasms.

__

A distinction which, Sherlock knew, hips twitching forward as his need crested, moaning around John’s cock and hearing him curse as he neared release, didn’t matter. Ruined orgasms were the only sort he could have. Real orgasms were for John. Only he could feel the true satisfying release and pleasure that Sherlock was only able to dream about.

__

“Mm, fuck. Stop, sweetheart.” John gently pushed Sherlock off his cock, giving him a crooked grin as he tugged at his balls, casually staving off his orgasm, the sight of which made Sherlock’s hips jump in envious desire. “Don’t want to come yet. Much rather fuck you. Yeah?”

__

“Yes.” Sherlock breathed and John laughed happily, pulling Sherlock up and over and pushing him down on the bed where John had just been with enough momentum that Sherlock bounced. John snogged him playfully, fingers digging into Sherlock’s sides and making him break their kiss, barking with laughter. John giggled with him, not stopping until there were tears of mirth in Sherlock’s eyes and he was begging John to stop.

__

“All right.” John gave him a hard kiss. “Now it’s my turn.” He waggled his eyebrows, and the rest of Sherlock’s laughter trailed off, replaced with the weight of arousal which was always heavy in his groin. John knelt over him and sucked at Sherlock’s nipples, lipping over them softly the way he knew Sherlock liked, making him arch and moan, before kneeling lower and running his tongue from one of Sherlock’s hipbones to the other, leaving behind a wet path. Sherlock’s skin prickled in gooseflesh when John kissed at the sensitive bend of his leg, where thigh met hip, sucking at the skin to watch him shudder, before bending Sherlock’s legs and pressing them up and back, spreading him lewdly and leaving nothing unseen.

__

The steel of the cage gleamed in the low lights of their bedroom. Beneath it, Sherlock’s balls were heavy, swollen with unspent come, and John ducked his head to lave at them lovingly. He was responsible for their state, after all, and enjoyed increasing their torment. After so long without release, they were sensitive and Sherlock thrust his hips, chasing the sensation which was achingly close to what he really wanted to feel. John obliged him, mouthed at them, first one and then the other, cautiously pulling one globe into his mouth and sucking at it before giving the other the same careful attention. He devoted himself to arousing Sherlock as much as possible because John loved him, with all his heart, and always made sure Sherlock enjoyed himself during sex, just as much as he did...except John was the only one allowed to come.

__

This was how John always made love to him; Sherlock locked, not allowed an erection or brought to orgasm. That was only for John and Sherlock hadn’t been allowed to experience the same since he first began submitting to John more than 6 years ago. He had long given up any idea of an alternative and now he relaxed and accepted the inevitability of his situation when he was kissed and caressed and made love to, made to feel cherished and loved and desired, and his straining cock was ignored, his orgasm an unstated impossibility. After so many years, it was normal to Sherlock. Normal to them both. There simply wasn’t any other way for them to make love.

__

Tingles spread through Sherlock’s body, centered in his groin before spiraling outward, to his testicles which were overwhelmed with pleasure, and prickling through his taint. His hole quivered and John, after licking his thumb, rubbed at the responsive furl as he continued his assault on Sherlock’s balls. He knew the effect he was having when Sherlock began earnestly rolling his hips, a high-pitched whine vibrating from his throat, and grinned, redoubling his efforts.

__

He finally abandoned Sherlock’s balls and wrapped his hand around the cage itself. Sherlock moaned, his cock surrounded by the heat of John’s hand, and he watched, barely breathing, as John lowered his head to suck his cock.

__

Besides the one incredibly rare instance last year, Sherlock’s cock never got sucked when it was unlocked- but the cage was small enough that John could fit the whole of it in his mouth, which, with a devious grin at Sherlock, he did. He slid his mouth down and over the whole cage, engulfing Sherlock’s cock in a mocking parody of what Sherlock had earlier done for him.

__

Sherlock watched, breathing shallowly, the sight an exquisite torment. He wondered how the steel tasted- he kept it clean and he’d showered earlier- but he doubted John could actually taste his cock through the metal. For his part, Sherlock could feel John’s heated, wonderfully wet mouth sucking at him, saliva engulfing the small space between his cock and the steel bars, causing it to slip and shift- just a fraction, the tiniest bit- vaguely reminding Sherlock of the joy and gratification of a real blow job. It was enough to tantalize, a pitiless tease.

__

Sherlock’s cock heaved against the bars, expanding with hopeful urgency, and then reaching the limits of the cage and realizing there was no where to go. His cock throbbed steadily, unwilling to accept the usual defeat. The urge to get hard was immeasurable. Sherlock whimpered, watching John bob his head, and wished he was allowed.

__

John pulled off Sherlock’s cock with an obscenely wet slurp to see what reaction he had caused. As if he didn’t know. Sherlock panted and precome welled freely from the tip of his cock. John narrowed his tongue so that it was slender enough to fit through the bars and touched, with the very tip of his tongue, the exposed, but tightly constricted head of Sherlock’s cock, cleaning away the precome with small, slow licks.

__

The sensation was _electric_.

__

Sherlock cried out as John licked him again, running his tongue over as much of the squashed head of his cock as he could. Sherlock writhed, the muscles in his thighs twitching, his legs falling open further as if that would somehow allow John greater access. Jolts of razor sharp pleasure shot from Sherlock’s cock, which tried again with desperation to harden, and his testicles drew up tight, spasming, ready to finally empty their load. But Sherlock knew with despairing certainty that he wouldn’t be able to come from this. John had already tried. More than once.

__

John sucked at the cage a little longer, the sounds wet and obscene, then let it slip from his mouth. Stroking the metal, he grinned at Sherlock playfully. “Do you even remember what that feels like?”

__

Sherlock shuddered and his cock oozed more precome which John was vigilant to lick again, distracting Sherlock from the question. He panted, blinking rapidly, and tried to focus. John was patient.

__

“Do you?” He asked again. “Remember?”

__

Sherlock grinned back at him, finding John’s other hand that wasn’t holding his cock and threading their fingers together, giving it a squeeze. “Yes." It had been more than a year ago, but he still remembered the way John had sucked his cock for over an hour, until his jaw hurt and Sherlock was begging. He hadn’t been allowed to come but it had still been amazing. "But maybe you should refresh my memory, John.”

__

John laughed out loud- they both knew that wouldn’t happen- and crawled up the bed to kiss the laughter out of Sherlock’s mouth. They tangled their tongues together, the kiss becoming heated before John drew away again.

__

“What about orgasm?” He whispered against Sherlock’s lips, his voice dark and intimate. It tugged at something low in Sherlock’s abdomen as John’s hand skimmed over his stomach to wrap around the steel-encased flesh again. “I know how long it’s been. Do you remember what a _real_ orgasm feels like, love?”

__

Arousal was thick, clogging Sherlock’s throat and almost choking him. His cock gave a traitorous thud at the question, the reminder of his denial ironically arousing. He shifted on the bed, pushing his confined cock into John’s hand. “Yes.” He whispered his confession, almost not able to get the words out. “I… I remember.”

__

“ _Really_?” John kissed Sherlock’s neck, hand straying from the cage to caress his engorged testicles, inexorably drawing Sherlock’s attention to them. These days, it wasn’t hard to do. “You really _still_ remember? After all this time? I’m surprised.”

__

Sherlock couldn’t admit it- not out loud- but he was surprised too.

__

It had been _so long_ since he’d been allowed a real orgasm. A full release that gave him pleasure and wasn't in some way ruined.

The cage was only unlocked twice a year, and so the possibility of Sherlock being allowed an orgasm was already incredibly rare. He only came _if_ John wanted him to, which was almost never, but even when he did come his orgasm was always ruined. Sherlock’s one real orgasm in the last three years shone like a beacon in a sea of frustration, and he clung to the memory of it, the reminder that his body was capable of pleasurable release (even if it’d still been rather painful), with fervent desire...

__

He remembered how good it had felt...John’s tongue in his mouth and his hand wrapped around his straining cock and it had been so long since John had touched him...Sherlock arched into the contact, craving more, sharp need twisting through him until he felt sick with want...his cock was rock hard and testicles pulled tight to his body and he needed to _come_...but only John could do that...Sherlock couldn’t...but it had been _so long_ since he had that he arched and humped and begged...please let me, oh please, John, please...

__

Even while he begged, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be allowed. He never was. They’d been doing this long enough that he’d accepted that John would never let him come...Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be allowed...but he’d still rolled his hips, fucking into John’s grip, enjoying the way it felt...a ruined orgasm was better than nothing and it was the closest Sherlock would probably ever get to a real one...he’d wanted it...he’d begged John for it, voice cracking as his desire sharply rose...pleading for a ruined orgasm- please, don’t stop, John, please let me, please....

__

Sherlock had felt himself about to come and groaned, despairing, expecting John to pull away like he always did...

__

-but John kept stroking...

__

\- and stroking and Sherlock cried out as his orgasm crested...and crested....and crested...and crested...and then...finally... _broke_ over him. He cried out, over and over, unable to keep quiet, as his cock shot out come in violent pulses, the rushing sensation of actually _spurting_ his come like he used to instead of being able to only weakly dribble it unfamiliar. He’d forgotten his body was capable of doing that-

__

And Sherlock had forgotten how _good_ it felt to come. To _really_ come and he stared down at his cock in surprised wonder, the sight of semen spurting so hard from the tip almost bizarre. But after being denied for so long, his orgasm was more pain than pleasure, muscles straining and locked, and testicles clenching rhythmically in desperate abandon once his body realized this- an orgasm- was actually happening. He’d read that could happen after long-term denial, had anticipated such a thing _if_ John ever let him come again, but he hadn’t thought it would hurt _so much_ , or that there would be _so little_ pleasure accompanying it...But even with the pain, Sherlock’s orgasm was still better than anything he’d felt in more than a year, and once it was over, Sherlock had stared at John in shock at being allowed an orgasm, something he genuinely hadn’t thought John would let him have again...and John smiled.

__

”Don’t worry, love. This was just a one-time thing. I told you it’d get boring after a while if I _never_ let you come. After so long, you’d forget how good it can feel to really _come_. You start to think that ruined orgasms are just as good. And they’re not. Are they?”

__

Sherlock had mutely shaken his head, entranced by John’s words. Because he was right. It had been so long and Sherlock had thought...he’d assumed...

__

”So this was to remind you, in case you’d forgotten, what a real orgasm can feel like...so from now on when you watch me come, you can remember what it felt like for you to have the same since that’s all you’ll be allowed. Memories...of when you used to be able to come.” He’d whispered and Sherlock had moaned, cock trying to harden again from John’s words as John locked it back in the cage...

__

Sherlock had loved his orgasm, even if the pain of it had eclipsed the pleasure, and it hadn’t been very satisfying..but after so many years, he was used to the denial. He didn’t come, John did. It was a fundamental part of him, just like the cage. He wouldn’t have it any other way and he was grateful that John was so understanding to give him all his fantasies...but this was the longest Sherlock had ever gone without some sort of release. Bordering on almost a year, he hadn’t even been allowed so much as a ruined orgasm. John hadn’t allowed him to come. At all.

__

“How does it feel?” John asked, cupping Sherlock’s balls. “How does it feel knowing how _long_ it’s been since _these_ ,” he lightly squeezed them and it was enough to take Sherlock’s breath away, “were allowed to feel real pleasure?”

__

“John.” Sherlock moaned, because the feeling was without words. How could he describe the constant ache in his groin? The immediate arousal which, after so long unrelieved, manifested over the smallest things? The want and the need which twisted through his body after John milked him because the juxtaposition of seeing his locked cock spooling out come while he burned for an unattainable orgasm both aroused and tormented him.

__

When Sherlock was unlocked from the cage to be cleaned, John more than made up for the months that his cock had been ignored. He touched him, increasing the need, and driving Sherlock to the edge of orgasm over and over, as many times as Sherlock could handle. He was led within a hairsbreadth of orgasm…John’s hand steady and wonderful and then…nothing. His cock was abandoned to twitch wildly in the air, hard and red and denied.

__

Always denied.

__

“It feels…indescribable.” Sherlock said, and that was the closest approximation to the truth. How could he put into words the exhilaration he felt of being allowed his rare erection, even if it only lasted a few hours? Of finally feeling John’s touch- so wonderful that Sherlock wanted it to never stop, even though he knew it would come to nothing? The despairing joy he felt when, at the end of the hour, when his body was overheated and anxious, cock painfully hard and he was begging to come, John would reach for the bowl of ice? It was mercilessly applied, shrinking Sherlock’s cock so the cage could be locked back where it belonged, to be forgotten about for another six months. How could Sherlock make John understand how much he both loved, and hated, the routine? How he craved orgasm but, from the bottom of his heart, loved the denial?

__

“Do you want to come?” John murmured his question against Sherlock’s lips. His hand left Sherlock’s balls and moved back, between Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock squirmed to give him better access. “Not that I’ll let you,” he hastily amended before he got Sherlock’s hopes up, “just. Do you really want to?”

__

Sherlock had almost used his safeword a few times. The feelings had been too much, the burning in his veins too overwhelming, a physical ache. With John stroking him so lovingly to the edge of orgasm, only to deny him again and again and again and again, Sherlock had thought he would die if he didn’t get to come. He would have even taken a ruined orgasm. Something. Anything. Some sort of relief. He couldn’t live like this. He’d never used his safeword, though.

__

Because once the ice was gone and the cage was locked back on, and once John fell on him, smothering Sherlock in kisses and cuddles and praising him for how well he’d done and how much he was pleasing him…Sherlock managed to settle. The ache in his groin didn’t go away, and his need to come didn’t lessen, but he was able to accept that this was what John wanted. John was in control. It was how things had always been between them and even if Sherlock didn’t know when John would let him come again, he trusted that- eventually, one day- he would.

__

“Yes.” Sherlock said truthfully as John slipped a lubed finger into his hole. “God. John. Please. I really do. I want to come so much…John- so much, please-” He gasped, his cock in anguish when it tried to get hard as he was breached, and he panted as it struggled against the limits of restraint, before softening. “But…I want you…I want you to…decide when.” It was what they had agreed on so long ago, and now, after so many years, Sherlock couldn’t imagine coming unless John told him he was allowed. “But it’s so hard…difficult.” Sherlock amended, giggling at his Freudian slip. John’s sly grin let him know he’d picked up on it too. “It’s been so long...oh, god...I want to come...not ruined...please, oh, please...real...a real orgasm...I…I really want to really come, John...”

__

“I know, love.” John slid his finger in and out, kissing Sherlock, slow and unhurried. “And I’ll let you come. Not right now, though, and not for a while still. I have a plan.” He explained, adding a second finger and scissoring them, stretching Sherlock. “You’ll be allowed to come. And I mean _come_ , sweetheart. A real, pleasurable orgasm. I know the first one will hurt, but I won’t stop at just one this time. Because I think we’ve gone for quite a while with the denial this time, yeah? I know it’s what you wanted but I want to see you come again, over and over and over.” Sherlock moaned with every word, cock streaming.

__

“If you want to pick this up again afterwards, that’s fine. More than fine. But I think you need a hard reset, sweetheart. I want you to come and I’ll make it feel... _so good_ for you....let you come over and over, like I said...Then if you want, I’ll spend the next few years working you right back up to this again.” He smirked. “I’ll let you come...eventually.” He crooked his fingers and, with precision not learned from being a doctor, but from an intimate knowledge of his partner, found Sherlock’s prostate and stroked at it with the pad of his finger.

__

Sherlock made a noise like he was dying and grabbed fistfuls of the bedsheets, spine bowing, brow furrowed as John rubbed that most sensitive place inside him. It was hypersensitive and with his cock locked, was the only way Sherlock ever felt any regular pleasure. Either when John milked him or when he was fucked- his prostate stimulated until it felt as if he would actually be able to come...but was never able. It was a pleasure that Sherlock craved and he ground on John’s fingers to bring himself more of it. John let him carry on for a bit, letting Sherlock ride his fingers and push out a steady stream of thick precome.

__

Finally, neither of them could take anymore and John removed his fingers and knelt between Sherlock’s spread legs.

__

“Grab the lube, sweetheart.” He instructed and Sherlock fumbled for the bottle, squirting a generous amount in his palm and reaching for John’s cock while John held Sherlock’s legs open, his hands gripping Sherlock’s ankles. Sherlock impatiently stroked John’s cock, applying the lube over the length of it, dabbing the rest on the head for easier entry. In his eagerness, he let John’s cock go and it dropped, bouncing slightly on Sherlock’s own cock, leaving a smear of lube behind on the steel but neither noticed. This was the way they’d had sex for years, regardless of the scene or time or place: John’s cock was free to give and take, hard and unfettered and allowed to come. Sherlock’s was always locked ruthlessly and after so many years, he honestly couldn’t remember what it felt like to come while being fucked.

__

Sherlock held his breath as John eased inside of him, the head of his cock popping past the first ring of muscles with a faint twinge. John was breathing heavily, muscles shaking to hold himself back and as soon as his cock was all the way inside, stretching Sherlock until it almost felt like it was too much, Sherlock moaned. His mouth fell open in pure pleasure. John felt so good inside him- big, enormous, filling him with every inch until there was no room for anything else.

__

“John…” He breathed and John kissed him, starting a deliberate, measured pace, pulling out and then thrusting back in with purpose, hard enough that Sherlock felt every thrust, but slow enough that he could feel the drag and pull of John’s cock as every inch of it slid out, out, out….and then was shoved back inside, knocking the breath from his lungs.

__

“God, you feel so good.” John whispered against his lips, and if Sherlock had had room in his body for words, he would have said the same thing. John’s cock always felt amazing, spearing into his body and skidding over his prostate every other thrust so that tears gathered at the corners of his eyes.

__

As John’s thrusts sped up, Sherlock’s own cock struggled at the stimulation, pressing against the steel bars. Sherlock didn’t know why it even tried. They’d been doing this for years but his cock still tried to harden every time in a stupidly optimistic attempt, as if it would actually be allowed pleasure. Sherlock shuddered, feeling himself twitch and pulse and tried to resist the urge to touch himself. 

__

“God, Sherlock...fuck...god yes-“ John moaned and Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s hips, urging him to thrust harder, faster, deeper. John obliged with a curse, his hips smacking wetly against Sherlock’s arse with every thrust, hard cock stretching him to the limit. “Fuck...oh, fuck...fuck...”

__

Sherlock closed his eyes, panting, open-mouthed, as he felt himself reaching his own peak which brought no satisfaction or sense of completion. There was always a moment during sex when his body came as close as it could to an orgasm. He was aroused. Body flushed and tingling. Nipples hard. Stomach cramping with need. His testicles were drawn up as far as they could under the hard circle of steel and his cock was almost purple where it was swelled against the bars, bulging through them. Sherlock watched his caged cock bounce with John’s rough thrusts and groaned, grasping at John, as his cock throbbed to the tempo of his own heartbeat, a frantic, agitated cadence. “Please, John...I need...oh, god- please, please, please-“

__

”Yes, sweetheart. I’ll give you what you need. Yeah? Oh, fuck, Sherlock...I’m gonna come...oh fuck-“

__

The words were tortuous, the knowledge that John was so close to orgasm which Sherlock was desperate for, a cruel reminder, and Sherlock clutched at John tighter, moaning. John’s thrusts turned erratic, plunging his cock into Sherlock as he greedily sought his release, and Sherlock’s testicles were jostled and jarred, pressed between them. The pressure enough to make him reach down and touch himself, but he whimpered when all his fingers encountered was steel. The message was clear: this was for John. Sherlock’s pleasure was, as always, irrelevant.

__

He still touched himself with desperate abandon, fingers sliding over the small parts of his cock through the bars, and he thrust his hips, chasing a release he knew he couldn’t attain-

__

“About to...to...fuck- where do you want me to come, sweetheart?” John asked roughly, breaths labored and Sherlock whined, debating. He loved when John came in his arse, leaving him stretched open and leaking come. But actually _seeing_ John come was irresistible, a masochistic torture for Sherlock to watch John reach a pleasurable orgasm which Sherlock barely remembered...

“On…on me…please…” Sherlock gasped, wrenching his hand away from his cock and tangling it in the sheets. “I w-want to see it. Want to see you c-come…please, John-!”

__

“God, yes.” John fucked into him even rougher, hitting Sherlock’s prostate and making him cry out from the sharp pleasure- he suddenly pulled out-

__

His cock was covered in lube, slick and gloriously hard. Sherlock writhed at the sight as John’s hand flew over his cock, stroking it with fast jerks. Sherlock watched jealously, his own cock burning for even the smallest touch after half a year of being confined. He reached down and touched himself again, quickly stroking over the small bit of his cock he could touch which was closest to the sensitive head. It pulsed as it tried…and tried...and tried to harden but steel won against soft flesh. It always won. John fisted his cock, groaning with rising pleasure, while Sherlock sobbed in abject need.

__

“Please, John! Please- come! Please come please please please.” Sherlock begged, voice wrecked. He had to see John come. He had to. If that was all he was allowed- vicariously experiencing John’s pleasure- he had to have it. It was sometimes almost enough. “Please...oh god, please!”

__

John stared at him through eyes slitted in growing pleasure, watching as Sherlock uselessly touched himself through the cage, squirming...then he tensed and was coming, groaning in pure relief.

__

Sherlock echoed him as John’s white come stripped hot across his body in thick ropes over his stomach and groin. He gasped when it splashed against the bars of his cage, and watched with wide eyes as it dripped, with ironic cruelty, over his swollen testicles. And that, the sight of the evidence of John’s orgasm slicked against his own denied flesh made him cry out. He thrust his hips, humping the cage against the air, and whined as his cock strained against the steel, frenzied in its desperation.

__

“Fuck.” John breathed shakily, letting go of his spent cock and slumping forward. Leaning over Sherlock, he pressed their lips together and Sherlock responded fervently, pulling John’s head to him and holding him there for a scorching kiss. His body still juddered beyond his control, the clamor for orgasm overwhelming and Sherlock realized he was moaning into their kiss, with every breath, pitiful, heartbreaking moans that he couldn’t stop.

__

“Eventually, sweetheart.” John whispered to Sherlock’s unasked question, slipping a hand between them to grip at the cage. His come ran between the bars, sticky and warm against Sherlock’s cock. “I promise. A little while longer.”

__

“John.” Sherlock shivered, hips jumping. “How…how much longer?”

__

John hesitated, then, “A few more months. Just a few. You can handle that, can’t you? For me?”

__

A few more months. The idea was insurmountable. It had already almost been a year since he had been allowed release. Longer than that since he'd felt real pleasure. John may as well have said another year.

__

“I don’t…know.” Sherlock confessed, forcing his body to try and settle, but it was overstimulated and pushed to the limit of what he thought he could handle. He knew that if John unlocked him right now, he would come, without any touch to his cock. All he had to do was get hard, and he knew it would happen.

__

“You can. I know you can.” John kissed the words into Sherlock’s mouth. “You’re so good for me, always. A few more months. A handful. You can do it. And after all that time, I’ll make your orgasm spectacular.”

__

The words were drugging, compelling. Sherlock pulled at John and he went, settling his body heavily over Sherlock, providing him the anchor he needed. A few more months, and then he would be allowed to come. It felt like it would be forever.

__

But it wouldn’t be that long, Sherlock reasoned, hugging John to him as his heartbeat began to slow. He’d already gone much longer. Compared to the time he’d already been denied, what were a few more months added on top of it?

__

“John.” Sherlock buried his nose in the top of John’s head, breathing in the rich smell of his soap and sweat. “A few more months?”

__

“No more than that. I promise.”

__

Sherlock shuddered and his cock gave another throb as excitement warred with need. “Yes.”

__

John inhaled sharply, hugging Sherlock with enough force that Sherlock fancied he could feel his skin bruising. It would be the perfect way to bruise: remnants of the strength of John’s love for him. He hugged back just as fiercely.

__

“You won’t regret it, love. I promise. I have a plan for your next orgasm.” He said and at the mention of his next orgasm, Sherlock’s cock jumped between them.

__

“I already regret it.” Sherlock teased and John laughed, kissing Sherlock’s cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his chin, and finally pressing the sweetest kiss to his lips.

__

“I’m sure.” He smiled. They both knew John only did to Sherlock what Sherlock himself allowed. The only person keeping Sherlock in this situation...was Sherlock. “I’ll milk you tomorrow morning, yeah? It’s been a while since I have. You'll feel a little better then. Let’s try and get some sleep.”

__

Sherlock knew it would be a while before he could sleep, but he settled with John in the bed, wriggling around until he was the little spoon, nestled back against John’s chest with John’s arm and leg thrown over him. John’s hand crept down to wrap around Sherlock’s caged cock, cradling it was blatant ownership. The gesture made something warm and happy expand in Sherlock’s chest. They may not have played with all the kink they knew and enjoyed that evening, but there in that moment, with John’s come drying on his skin and over his aching testicles, with Sherlock’s cock so eager to come he wanted to cry with it, Sherlock had never felt more like he belonged with John, that he was owned by his John, or so much in love with him.

__

**Author's Note:**

> As always: please keep in mind that both Sherlock and John are consenting adults and while they may play out a kinky fantasy, no one is being forced/coerced to do anything and there are safe words in place.


End file.
